


What He Values

by Ozymanreis



Series: The Other Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Established Relationship, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Series 3, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is being dumb, Texting, jimlock, major character death from his last vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Direct sequel to "The Other Game," roughly follows the storyline of series 3. </p><p>After two blissful years away, Sherlock is back in London, growing more lonely and bored by the second — his dear Moriarty has disappeared! Sherlock misses him dearly, but can't deny the criminal's absence is entirely *his* fault...</p><p>But there are some prices he just isn't willing to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reacquainting with the Mundane

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to my continuing crusade to make more loving, romantic Sheriarty/Jimlock atmosphere. This roughly follows series 3, but I really hate re-writing scenes from the actual show, so it'll help if you've already watched series 3 (which, if you haven't: SPOILERS!). 
> 
> This chapter picks up after Mycroft has handed Sherlock his terrorist-sniffing mission, and the investigation is at a stand-still.
> 
> Still mostly un-beta'd, so always feel free to point out any mistakes I make :) Enjoy!

 

Sitting in the living room of 221B, Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. He had only been back in London for a week, and the ache of loneliness had settled in. The underground terrorist group hadn't yet made themselves known, at least judging from the lack of information he got from his test people. There was no work to occupy his mind. 

John still wasn't properly talking to him, Lestrade had a real job to do (whatever that was) and Mycroft was, well, _Mycroft_ … 

 _I suppose I have a fan club now,_ he thought bitterly, biting his own tongue for the mere suggestion of spending a second with _Anderson_ , who apparently now thought the world of him. _His idiocy knows no bounds_ … When did he become so dependent on people? Sure, he frequently went through bouts of boredom — sometimes for weeks on end. However, upon reflection, the last time he felt such a chasm in his so-called soul, he had access to opiates. 

Now if he wanted drugs, he'd have to get very creative, seeing as he was sure Mycroft had people specifically hired to MI6 just to watch him. Some would call this paranoid, but Sherlock knew his brother and his secret sentiment. "I only want what's best for you, brother-mine." He mocked aloud, taking on a nagging tone. _He probably heard that_ … _Yes, it would be just like Mycroft to bug the flat._

Picking up his violin, he attempted to bow a few notes, but seconds later had to resist the urge to smash the cursed thing on the floor. This wasn't what he needed. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he _needed_ someone. Not just anyone, but freaking _James Moriarty_. Maybe the violin wouldn't live to see another day after all. 

Collapsing back on the chair, he crushed his face into his hands, trying to squeeze the memory out of his brain. Eight days. It had only been eight days since he saw James, and yet his loss was nigh unbearable. Sherlock was sure that he could've spent those two years alone and managed just fine. 

Until James had to go and ruin _everything_. His presence had been an insisting, but entirely welcome force. His company was invaluable, and while he wouldn't go so far as to say they were _dating_ , they certainly had boyfriend-like qualities to their… relationship? Of course, Sherlock was now kicking himself for how their last interaction went. 

 

**[Eight days ago]**

 

"Just so." Jim said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling them into a romantic smooch. Two little words and Sherlock's chest swelled with bliss, fiercely returning the kiss. But then Moriarty pulled away with a sly grin — that grin never preceded something good, "But do remember, Sherlock, I'm a businessman. Everything has a price." 

For a moment, Sherlock panicked, jerking out of the embrace. Had this all an act? Had he truly been played for the past two years? He had been so preoccupied with the rest of the game, he allowed himself to get distracted from the real danger. Jim had wormed his way into his softer side to get leverage. His mind raced with these thoughts of betrayal, but still he couldn't quite resolve the persistent memories that he was sure were genuine. Reflexive kisses, the buzz he felt when they would accidentally graze each other, the way Jim's arm would curl around his waist while they slept, the little smiles he caught when Moriarty thought he wasn't looking… 

It must be impossible to fake things like that, right?

Reading his mind, Moriarty raised a hand, "Now, Sherlock, don't be like that. I've made my feelings for you quite clear. I know you have trust issues, and I may have even caused a few of them, but please don't let your mind stray. My price is nothing sinister, I assure you. And nothing you aren't _capable_ of giving me."

Sherlock clamped down on those thoughts, staying silent, but open-minded. The criminal had a point; even though he was dangerous and had a knack for acting, he had devoted two years of his life just to Sherlock. And not once did he try to hurt him or take advantage. He nodded, signaling Jim to name his price. The shorter man smiled, "Isn't that better? It's far less stressful just to trust me." 

There was a slight pause, Jim trying to figure out the best way to do it. Finally, he stepped forward again, this time only coming in for a hug. They stayed like this a while, Sherlock resting his head against Moriarty's. Even though the scene was entirely calm, they both still got those pesky butterflies, their mutual attraction only growing as the days went on. Time meant very little whenever they touched.

But things went wrong very fast. Jim leaned back, arms still around the detective, making burning eye contact. 

"I love you, Sherlock." 

He let the words ring out, hanging in the air. Sherlock's eyes went wide, mind working furiously again — this was something he had never heard before. At least, from anyone but his parents (he wasn't even sure Mycroft had ever said it). 

Zipping around in his mind palace, he didn't know what to do. From his observations of bad television and movies, he was sure this was the point where he would reciprocate those feelings verbally. But the idea terrified him, even if he was sure he felt the same way. Somehow he couldn't let go that this was all a trick, and that the moment he said the words, revealing that his chemical defect howled for James Moriarty, Napoleon of crime, that it'd be used against him in every horrible manner. 

The Irishman frowned, completely aware of the exchange going on in his beloved's head, "Look, Sherlock, I'm not going to return to England lightly. It'd involve a lot of hiding on my part, seeing as it's actually pretty useful that the side of the angels thinks I'm dead. And hiding is _boring_ and so painfully _peasant_ … But I'd be willing to do it, and very happily at that… if you'd just tell me you felt the same way." 

 _Just say it_. Sherlock thought, but was still effectively paralyzed by Moriarty's declaration. _Say it._ He inhaled, but then pursed his lips. James sighed, "I _know_ you do, Sherlock." Did he look hurt? Yes. There was definitely pain behind those black, penetrating eyes, "But I still want to hear you say the words. It's important to me." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in shock — he would've put money on James immediately responding to his silence with hostility. _No doubt he's changed the slightest bit, if only to be more accommodating to me_ … Yet, he was still ineffably _Moriarty_. This was for the best, as he would probably be unable to love him any other way. 

All of this, and he still couldn't vocalize these thoughts. Curse his rejection of all things like this in the past! _Watson can say things like this so easily, even if they aren't true._ _It must get easier the more you've done it._ What he would give to have a voice like _that_ in his head… 

Jim sighed again, "I'll see you around." He twisted out of the embrace, wearing a sad smile as he walked out. 

Sherlock didn't stop him.

 

**[Present day]**

 

Sherlock hadn't so much as gotten a text since that day. True, he hadn't made any visible effort to get into contact with Moriarty, or even bothered to find out where he was, but _still._ The detective was still a stubborn child. He grumbled, pressing a pillow against his face, feebly trying to suffocate himself. _I need a case._ He pulled out his phone dejectedly, opening a new text to Mycroft.

 

_Your agent couldn't have been more specific? Dull. -SH_

 

_Lashing out again, Sherlock? Plebeian. -MH_

 

He huffed. It wasn't as if he were trying to be bored, he had just lost his greatest distraction. Maybe he could set his sights on procuring something. Opium was too obvious, and for that matter, buying was too much of a risk. _I might be able to distill something_ — a text chime interrupted his budding chemical formula.

 

_Don't even think about it. -MH_

 

Of course Mycroft would be watching. As much as he enjoyed aggravating his brother, he wasn't about to let Moriarty drive him back to rehab. 

 

_Told you she hated the mustache. -SH_

 

_Piss off! -JW_

 

Well _that_ wasn't going to go anywhere. It didn't matter — neither John nor Mycroft could offer him what he wanted. No, he _wanted_ to text James, but felt like it'd be unwelcome at this point. That _he_ would be unwelcome, since he didn't have anything of value to offer James, as long as he couldn't bring himself to say those words. _It's for the best._

Sighing again, he studied his wall of potential suspects, "Where do they intersect?" No one had fled the city. No one had taken precautionary measures. Moriarty couldn't have been doing this; by walking out, he had tacitly promised to make Sherlock's life boring as possible, which meant no interesting or enigmatic cases. Then who was behind all of this? 

 


	2. Not Prepared to Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up in The Empty Hearse after John is kidnapped, Mary and Sherlock have just arrived at the celebration ;x (seriously, mild spoilers for those uninterested!)

"Save John Watson." Again, Sherlock's mind sped to the point of deconstruction. The world went by in flashes: he was speeding on a motorbike with Mary, trying to find the fastest way to the square. But where was he really? People. Too many people. Sherlock didn't like people, and especially didn't like crowds of them. There was some sort of celebration going on, with the beginnings of a bonfire — _oh._

John was going to be burned alive. _Just to get to me_ , he thought, screaming John's name, practically diving into the burning palates. He might've cried if the smoke hadn't completely dried out his eyes. Losing Moriarty was bad enough, but his best friend was out of the question. 

Thoughts of being _alone_ in the world began flashing like a strobe light in his brain. Sherlock had lived most of his life _alone_ , and he hadn't minded. But ever since the fall… was this Jim's plan all along? To prove how _dependent_ he had become on the love and good will of others? Sure, he was still very disliked by many, but the connections he made to a few choice human beings…

 _John!_ His mind was on fire, just as the mound was. 

Gasping, he hauled John out of the smoldering brush. Much to Sherlock's disappointment, there wasn't the tearful reunion and gratitude for saving John's life. In the doctor's defense, he had just inhaled far too much smoke than was safe, but Sherlock wasn't thinking about that. 

He was hardly thinking at all. 

Ruefully, he passed the doctor along to Mary, walking off sullenly. 

He swept the area for clues, but wasn't hopeful, _I doubt there'd be any evidence pointing to the culprit…_ No, whomever arranged this was on Sherlock's level. _And trying to get at my weak points…a connection to Mycroft's terrorist plot? Maybe._

Back at 221B, Sherlock buried himself in bed, violently repressing the urge to sob. _John…_ he thought, _I didn't even consider that he might never talk to me again._ What had he been thinking? John was angry at him, of course, but this wasn't an uncommon occurrence. John would get over it, like he always did, and then go back to helping Sherlock. _But what if he didn't? What if he had died tonight?_ Or worse, _What if he never forgives me?_  

John was his first friend. For a long time, he was his _only_ friend. In time it became abundantly clear he had accrued others that he at least _cared_ about, but Watson had opened that part of his heart. Without him, people were just faceless shadows, incapable of imparting any real value.Despite his vast intellect and self-awareness, Sherlock was unable to recognize the slow growth of affections in his heart.

 _Shut up! I refuse to think about this_. Sherlock tried to sleep, but nagging thoughts persisted, _I feel_ remorse. _Remorse! I'm a high-functioning sociopath, I don't feel bollocks. But here I am. Mocking my own self… I already apologized, John!_ He covered his ears, trying to block out the specter of John's voice, telling him he was being stubborn. _I must be going crazy._

The sheer amount of emotional exertion he had been forced to endure this day made him do something extremely rash. He pried himself away from the pillow he had been sinking into and fished his phone from the nightstand: 

 

_I miss you. -SH_

 

Sent. 

 _There. I gave in. I'm done being "stubborn." Maybe now everything will be right with the world_. His thoughts were hardly serious, but it was strange he was being sarcastic with no one around to hear or acknowledge it. Staring at the screen, his eyes tried to bore a hole in the name, "Moriarty." 

Message received. 

Sherlock felt a little jolt, knowing that Jim, wherever he was, was awake too. And was reading his texts. _Then again, I know he reads EVERY text… business is business._

Approximately 3 minutes later, there was still not response. _Still not over it, then?_ He sighed, _There's not much more I can do, except…_

 

_I'm ready. I'll say it. Come back. -SH_

 

Deleted. 

 _The real problem here is that he_ knows _I'm having this dilemma… he won't respond because he's hoping I'll give in._ Was now the time to cash in? Would he admit to needing another human being as more than a sparring partner? 

To that, Sherlock fell asleep. 

 


	3. How Much Longer, Sherlock?

Sherlock woke the next morning, resisting the urge to immediately check his phone. He wouldn't be _that_ desperate. He may have loved Jim Moriarty, but he wouldn't let those feelings betray him. Especially not when the case was finally getting somewhere. He unlocked the screen and his heart fell: nothing. _I don't know what else I was expecting._ He mentally grumbled, getting up and putting clothes on: he had other things to do today than feel _wounded_ after being ignored.

His parents were coming over, _A flagrant waste of time…_

It wasn't as if he _despised_ them — it was rare he felt so strongly about anything — they just weren't particularly interesting. As he began fiddling with his clue-map, he felt his pocket vibrate. 

 

_Well now we're getting somewhere! -JM_

 

Sherlock scowled — why had he said something so pitiful? His cheeks began to burn as he typed a reply.

 

_Sorry for the moment of weakness. Had a rough day. -SH_

 

_Needed me that much? -JM_

 

_Almost lost John. -SH_

 

_You certainly know how to make a guy feel special. -JM_

 

Sherlock put his phone away, sensing that he had hurt Jim again. Obviously, the correct answer should've been _yes — why couldn't I just be nice and say what he wanted to hear?_   _Oh right, because I'm a sociopath, I'm only nice when I want something_. But he didn't want anything from the brilliant criminal. "Want" was far too weak a sentiment. No, he _needed_ the criminal's love, but that was something he didn't deserve.

 

**[An hour later…]**

 

His parents had arrived, prattling on about something useless, Sherlock was convinced. He might've had a better idea if he were actually listening, but he was busy putting pins on his map. His pocket buzzed again. 

 

_You know I feel the same. If only you would do something about our separation. -JM_

 

His heart fluttered, but he didn't know what to say. And with his parents around, he risked someone witnessing his flirtatious body language. _Not that they're terribly observant_ … 

The door opened. _John!_ Sherlock leapt at the chance to make up and to get rid of his parents. Plus, John could give him an excuse not to join them for _Les Mis_. He couldn't think of something he wanted to do _less._ Practically forcing his parents out the door, he made some arbitrary promise that he would just end up deleting. 

His interaction with John went well. Overall, there was some sort of forgiveness there. He felt better — being at odds with the person he cared about most wasn't preferable. They laughed, discussed John's life during the vacancy, the case, but Sherlock still wasn't quite alright. 

 

**[20 minutes later…]**

 

They had just begun mapped out the underground, looking for a place one could hide a tube car when his pocket buzzed again. 

 

_Given any thought to my request? -JM_

 

In truth, during his unoccupied moments, Sherlock had thought of little else. Cases had always been a distraction, but now they were a defense. Boredom was one thing, but _regret_ was out of the question. John had busied himself with a particularly useless clue, as always, affording the brunette a quick moment to tap out a reply. 

 

_I thought it was payment? -SH_

 

_Request, payment, your admission of eternal love and devotion to little old me. Whatever you want to call it. -JM_

 

But it was at that moment Sherlock had a surge of inspiration — a hole in the surveillance. 

 

_Have to go. Case. -SH_

 

_Don't get hurt now. There are bad, bad people out there. -JM_

 

_Are you behind this? -SH_

 

_Who can say? Run along now. -JM_

 

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, in some hotel room in London, Sebastian Moran was unlocking Jim's briefcase that contained the detonator. 


	4. Got You!

After the successful disarming of the explosive parked underneath Parliament, Sherlock slipped away. Really, the whole point of that exercise was to get John to say how important their friendship was to him, and he got that and then some. Flush with success, he actually found himself giggling, _Far too easy_. Yes, he enjoyed solving cases, but he fancied himself (but only once in a while _indulged_ in being) a far superior trickster. At least, that's how he preferred it. 

Mycroft would have questions, he was sure of that. _The secret police he had sent were no doubt interrogating John as to my whereabouts._ _Idiots, just check my house._ He deftly wove in and out of the crowds in the underground, emerging about five blocks from the nearest MI6 scout. 

Hailing a cab back to 221B, Sherlock felt his pocket buzz.

 

_Caught my dearest sniper, did you? -JM_

 

_The briefcase was sending out radio waves in order to activate the bomb. It was sloppy of you to think we wouldn't be able to trace it back. -SH_

 

_Wow, I'm surprised I didn't think of that. -JM_

 

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in alarm, but tried not to let it show.

 

_How was this part of your plan? -SH_

 

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… I'm disappointed. Why would I want to destroy Parliament? That actually might get me in trouble someday. -JM_

 

_Terrorist threats are no small matter. -SH_

 

_But you arrested the man responsible! I'm sure I'll read about it in the papers. -JM_

 

_Why did you want Moran arrested? -SH_

 

_Consider it a test of his loyalties. -JM_

 

_That's not it, either. -SH_

 

_Aren't you clever? -JM_

 

_Let's say I explain it in person, hmm? -JM_

 

_You know where I live. -SH_

 

_Uh-uh, honey. I'm still waiting. -JM_

 

Truthfully, James was betting that Sherlock wouldn't admit to his feelings — at least, not yet. If he did, then he _might_ have to explain what this elaborate scheme was _really_ about. 

The current contract was simple: a tabloid and newspaper tycoon by the name of Charles Augustus Magnussen had procured Moriarty's services. But that wasn't his only profession.

 _Blackmailer_ , Jim was sitting at a desk in Spain, reviewing Magnussen's email, _All he wants is another piece to add to his twisted puzzle… I can accommodate that._ It was true that the slimy journalist had tried to… _persuade_ Moriarty to take on his case free of charge, but he didn't hold that against him at all. No, evil commanded a certain level of respect. 

 

* * *

 

_Dear Jim,_

 

_I'm looking to have the British government in my pocket. I need a way to control Mycroft Holmes._

 

_-CAM_

 

The email was concise, _and not nearly groveling enough._ Usually, the lack of esteemed worship from potential clients was enough to push "delete." But the very mention of the Holmes name had piqued Moriarty's interest. 

 

_CAM-_

 

_What does owning the British government do for you?_

_No doubt you've researched into my methods, and are keenly aware that I_ do _know what makes Mycroft Holmes tick. But secrets are far more valuable than money or murders. What makes you think I'll part with them?_

 

_-M._

 

The reply was short, but got straight to the point:

 

_Are those secrets worth Sherlock Holmes?_

 

 _He had the_ nerve _to try and use Sherlock against me? Pfft._ James actually burst out laughing when Magnussen suggested that Sherlock's well-being was on the line if he didn't comply:

 

_I'm not sure who you think I am, but even if Sherlock was my so-called 'pressure point,' I've done more to damage him than anybody ever could. And I know you won't kill him, because face it: for your plan to work, you need him alive._

_Come back when you've got a real offer. Tah._

 

Traditionally, James had a persona he liked to take on for his business affairs — a more serious tone — but Magnussen wouldn't fall for his intimidation. The subtle threat on his detective was _alarming,_ yet didn't warrant too much of Moriarty's attention, _He can take care of himself._ Besides, Sherlock was key to his new client's plan: get Mycroft Holmes. 

 

_You're right. Sorry, forgot I wasn't playing with the peasants._

_My problem, you see, is that Mycroft's only weakness is Sherlock. But Sherlock's only weaknesses are dead, or you. And as you've demonstrated, you're untouchable._

_What would you like in payment for Sherlock's pressure point?_

 

Moriarty laughed again, "Absolutely nothing." The plan was so delightfully evil that he'd do it free of charge. _Anything that annoys Mycroft Holmes is fine by me._ _Besides, it will be fun watching Sherlock squirm around._

So James laid it out: Sherlock's most easily exploitable weakness was John. But John wasn't talking to Sherlock. He devised a plan to get them back together by placing the good doctor's life in danger, then handing Sherlock the opportunity to reconcile, _I wouldn't usually put an off switch on my explosives, but I wouldn't want to hurt poor Sherlock._

Besides that, he had rigged the bomb to shut off if the timer hit less than five seconds, _He could use the motivation anyway._

 

* * *

 

Sebastian wasn't supposed to get caught, but he'd be broken out by the rest of the network in a matter of hours — the ex-military man could use a few hours in lock up, he hadn't been keeping very good discipline while James was away. 

On his phone, he opened a final email to Magnussen: 

 

 _Done_. 

 

Pouring himself a drink, he toasted to his brilliance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't noticed yet... this whole fic is kind of just a giant headcannon! But really, I have a ridiculously amount of theories on this whole thing...
> 
> Basically, I don't think Magnussen would ever kidnap someone and try to burn them to death. No, that's Moriarty's type of evil. Magnussen wouldn't do anything more than flick your face and try to get a rise out of you. He wants blackmail, not corpses.


	5. Love, Matrimony, Death and Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly texting chapter! They're actually my favorite to write ;) 
> 
> Picks up immediately after Sherlock stalks off from the wedding.

_Nice job, figuring out "the Mayfly Man" and "the Invisible Man" were the same person. -JM_

 

_Don't patronize me. Was this one of *your* jobs? -SH_

 

_Touchy, touchy. No, this was far too sloppy to be my handiwork. I was only trying to pay you a compliment. Apparently your opinion of me is slipping. -JM_

 

_Whatever. I'm just glad I could make something of this pointless evening. -SH_

 

_Didn't enjoy the wedding? -JM_

 

_Why would I have? Weddings are like funerals, except the celebrated figures go on sex holiday instead of in a shared grave. Then again, they will end up there eventually… -SH_

 

_Jealous, are we? -JM_

 

_She isn't my type. -SH_

 

_Is he? -JM_

 

_I don't have a "type." -SH_

 

_No, I suppose you don't. Just a volatile fantasy ;) -JM_

_But if you aren't jealous, why are you upset? -JM_

 

_I used to revel in being alone. But the reception… it just reminded me that at the end of the day, everyone is paired off. My choice in being detached has never felt so… salient. -SH_

 

_Dear me, how… adorable! My little Sherlock, thinking about his future. -JM_

 

_Piss off. -SH_

_Besides I left almost immediately after my role was completed. -SH_

 

_Ouch. I was just excited. That's really too bad — you know how I love to watch you dance. -JM_

 

_No one to dance with. -SH_

 

_That could've easily been remedied. If only, if only, my love… -JM_

 

_Nevermind. It is pointless. Why should I share what little is mine? For what, puppy eyes and society's approval? -SH_

 

_I doubt you'd ever really fit the bill — to go the whole nine yards, you'd need a 9-5 job, a minivan, a wife and a few kiddies. Does that sound like your front-runner? -JM_

 

_If I thought that was in my future, I'd have told Mycroft just to let me drop. -SH_

 

_Would it be so bad if it was someone you genuinely loved? -JM_

 

_I'd hope that the person I fell in love with doesn't want any of those things either. -SH_

 

_He doesn't ;) -JM_

 

 _That's why I wouldn't mind if it was you._ Sherlock typed out. But his finger hovered over "send." He quickly deleted the text, replacing it with _I love you._ Still, he hesitated. Minutes passed and Jim got impatient. 

 

_But what about society's approval? Your parents'? The Iceman's? -JM_

 

Sherlock scowled at the phone — Moriarty already knew his answer.

 

_The person I love, *no one* would ever approve. -SH_

 

_So close, Sherlock! Just a little more for daddy? -JM_

 

He had a good point — the detective had never _denied_ loving James Moriarty, be it to his face, or to others. They had been couple-y for two years, and Sherlock certainly acted the part as best he could. Really, he had done everything he could to _show_ his love, despite not being very attentive these past few months. All he needed to do was _say the words_. 

 

_I have some reservations about submitting to the will of a murderer. -SH_

 

_You seem didn't have a problem with it for two years ;) -JM_

 

_That was different. -SH_

 

_How? Perhaps you think you were less… vulnerable? -JM_

 

_Something like that. -SH_

 

_Honey, I watched you sleep. I occasionally prepared meals. I had you writhing beneath me. I sent you into dens of murderers I employed. I could've killed you any number of times. I never did. I can't imagine it gets more vulnerable than that. -JM_

 

_Congrats, did you want a certificate? "Two years strong: I never killed my boyfriend!" -SH_

 

_So you admit we were "boyfriends?" -JM_

 

_For lack of a better term, yes. -SH_

 

_That's new. What are we now? -JM_

 

_Two very stubborn adults. -SH_

 

_Yes, but is this what they call a "rough patch," or are we actually broken up? -JM_

 

_You decide. -SH_

 

_Watch it now, Sherlock, you'll make me think you don't care. -JM_

 

 _Labels don't worry me. -SH_  

_And don't think I haven't noticed. -SH_

 

_Noticed what? -JM_

 

_The distinct lack of murders lately. Well, the interesting ones. -SH_

 

_Bored, sweetie? -JM_

 

_I didn't say that. I just haven't noticed a "Dear Jim" lately. Your fingerprints on bodies are quite distinct. -SH_

 

_Are you sure I haven't just made them *look* mundane? I know you're looking for any trace of me. I could just be taking it easy. Besides, I'm not based in London anymore. -JM_

 

_On the contrary, I am finding more and more *interesting* cases. With your name on them. They just don't involve homicides… not as many as there were. -SH_

 

_Why is that my concern? -JM_

 

_Because that means you're still working in London. You've just turned away from murders. I've been forced to scrutinize the meaning behind that. -SH_

 

_Are you sure it *means* anything? Maybe people are feeling less savage. I work on *request*, you know. -JM_

 

_I know that. But people will always want their problems "done away with." No, you're shying away from them for a specific purpose. -SH_

 

_Oh? Do tell. I'm always curious as to what my motives are. -JM_

 

_Either I'm making your psychosis wane, or you're trying to appeal to me. -SH_

 

_That's rather presumptuous. What makes you think it's all about you? -JM_

 

_Because you love me :P -SH_

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dumb little emoticon, but it felt appropriate. 

 

_Is it working? -JM_

 

_It's a valiant attempt at romanticism. I appreciate not having to feel guilty whenever you try and get my attention. -SH_

 

_Pity, it's when you respond best. -JM_

 

_I'm talking to you now. -SH_

 

_Soooo not what I was looking for, honey. -JM_

 

For the time being, that was all Sherlock could muster. But he knew he couldn't hold out much longer — he reasoned that he didn't want to say _it_ over text. Something about it felt impersonal; James had done him the courtesy of telling him in person, and while he couldn't do that as long as he avoided him, he might catch wind of his location. Show up by surprise. 

 _Perhaps I'm catching the romantic bug from John…_ he thought hopelessly, _That'd be the worst thing to happen to me, and I'm in love with a murderer._

 

_Bedtime for me, sweetness. Love and kisses -JM xx_

 

_Sleep well. -SH_

 


	6. Difficult

_Why does she have to be_ _Irish?_ Sherlock sighed, trying to comfort himself. It was a terribly strange situation: he had a _girlfriend_ , but he could hardly stand to look at her. No, wait, looking at her was fine — it was Janine's _voice_ more than anything else. 

In fact, she was quite funny, easy to get along with, reasonably smart (well, she wasn't _dreadfully dull_ ), and had an _awareness_ about her that Sherlock could respect. But it was absolutely hateful to hear her say, "Sherlock." It was just the way James used to. The way Sherlock hadn't heard in almost a year. 

At some point, he tactfully suggested that she use the nickname "Sherl." He could live with that. It was the small pop on the "k" that drove him into a spiraling madness, only able to see James' face.

Thankfully, it was a temporary arrangement. Shortly after the wedding, Sherlock had called up Janine and asked her for coffee. He apologized for being _himself_ , and sheepishly admitted that he was jealous of the man she took home from the wedding. She didn't seem entirely convinced, but for whatever reason she agreed to start seeing him. Then she kissed him.

_It's for the mission_ , he chanted, _She's Magnussen's P.A., breaking into his office will be so much easier if she adores me. Human error. Human error. Human —_ touching her was worse. With the memory of Jim's touch, his warmth, the connection they shared, being close with another human being in a _sexual_ way had never felt so _wrong_. 

_It's a lie,_ Sherlock thought, trying not to seem to apprehensive, _It's hollow and meaningless. But "meaningless" never bothered me before…_ _Apparently Jim is trying to ruin my plans, and he doesn't even know what they are. Christ, he doesn't even need to be_ here _._

Janine began acting very "girlfriend-y," staying at 221B, sleeping in Sherlock's bed. This made him somewhat uncomfortable, but reasoned this was good: it meant she was getting quite attached. But she couldn't be _that_ attached. 

"I'm saving myself for marriage!" He practically cracked up at the blatant lie, disguising it as embarrassment. She was courteous about the let-down, and didn't bring it up further. 

Once the "girlfriend" situation had been secured, Sherlock went about tarnishing his reputation: he stopped taking cases, and started up his drug habit again. For a while, it was cocaine, it was where he started on hard drugs in his teens. But back then, he needed the energy boost to propel the more interesting cases. Right now, it was essential that he look pathetic and useless, laying around… 

Quickly, he picked heroine as his drug of choice. _It could be worse_ , he thought, injecting a twelve percent solution between his toes. He sighed into the high, the rush denied to him for far too long. Those pesky cravings for stimulation zipped away; it was nice.

Still, he would've preferred if Jim was around. _He wouldn't judge me_ , Sherlock thought, losing the mental faculties that generated more complex thoughts and ideas, _At least this way I don't have to think about him_. 

Time meshed together, colors dripped out of the world like oil paints. The detective had issues keeping Mycroft in the dark about this development, so he just stopped responding to the texts. At some point, he ends up in a disheveled house; with others far more dependent on the chemicals than he. _Lost causes_ , he thought callously. 

It was peaceful. Hardly anyone spoke, they mostly just laid around. _I could get used to this_ , he mused, curled up in his costume — sweat pants and a hoodie, _Wonder how long I've been here?_ _Oh wait, I'm thinking. Must mean it's time for another dose…_

At some point, he hears John's voice, "Do you think I know a lot of people here?!" He was talking to someone else, clearly outraged. 

_John? When did he get here? Have I been gone that long?_ "Did you come for me, too?" He droned, getting up to see if John was really there. Yep. Watson began freaking out, but it was difficult to keep track — accusations of being a drug addict again, how Sherlock _needed_ John in his life to keep him clean, yada, yada, yada… 

"I'm undercover." He said, trying his best to formulate coherent ideas in ways John might understand them. 

Needless to say, the doctor wasn't having any of it. Vaguely, Sherlock processed that they were going to the hospital to get him a urine analysis, _Oh joy, now I have to justify myself to everyone I know._ Like John, no one would believe his perfectly sound story of an undercover mission. 

The lack of faith his so-called colleagues had for him was a small consideration, compared to the pile of nitrogenous waste that was Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

 


	7. Control the Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but like I said, I really don't like doing re-writes of scenes... but it was necessary to get the show on the road!

Mary turned around, Magnussen kneeling at her feet. She was dressed in a full cat suit, up to no good. _Obviously_ up to no good. But Sherlock couldn't process the idea, it seemed so unlikely, so wrong, so foreign. All that was clear was one word: liar.

_What is Mary doing here?_

Liar _._

_Why did she sneak in here?_

Liar _._

_Why is she trying to kill Magnussen?_

Liar _._

_How did she get in here?_

Liar.

_Did_ she _propose to Janine too?_

Liar.

_What does this mean for John?_

Thoughts flashed by Sherlock's eyes, as well as the sheen on Mary's pistol. 

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

There was far too much going on, but all Sherlock could focus on right now was _John's new wife_ pointing a _gun_ at him. 

"No, Mrs. Watson, you won't." He stepped forward. She pulled the trigger. 

Immediately, he went through emergency procedures in his head. _Last moments before death,_ he thought. He did everything he could to ensure he wouldn't bleed out before an ambulance might get there. If there was one coming. He might die. He might not. 

Molly was there. Anderson joined her. _Is the bullet inside me?_  

Mycroft was there, _I'm not stupid!_ Sherlock fell backward. 

_The shock will kill me now._ Sherlock went to visit Redbeard, snuggling with his beloved childhood pet. _And now the pain_ … he began to convulse. 

_Moriarty…_ _Jim… don't fail me now._ Jim was there, but not the one he missed. No, this was the animalistic side. The one James tried to so hard to contain, only to be let out in small bursts. Even if he didn't miss this one, he was still in love. 

"Stay with me," the copy pleaded, kneeling next to the dying Sherlock, "Tell me you love me." These weren't the words, but it's what the clone meant. They laid beside each other, Sherlock unable to do much else with his imagination, _You're just an aspect._ It was the most comforting thing he could think of without letting the monstrous side free. 

_John Watson is definitely in danger…_

But none of this would encode. Too much at once, not enough processing power. He'd remember nothing.

The next thing he knew, the strong smell of antiseptic and sterile procedures surrounded him, waking up with an IV in his arm and a patched hole in his gut.

 


	8. Nice Job, Getting Shot and All

"I'll give your love to John and Mary." Janine said, stalking out. Sherlock quietly wondered if he'd ever see her again. _She did vow further revenge…_ It had been an uncomfortable confrontation, yes, but of all the ways to break off an engagement, playing on the human error of _sympathy_ whilst he lay in a hospital bed seemed the easiest. 

However, Sherlock hadn't calculated that Janine would see past his façade; that, if nothing else, had piqued his interest. _We could've been_ friends? _What does that even mean? What kind of man does she think I am?_

But his introspective thoughts were interrupted as the door shut, revealing a very dressed-down Moriarty — jeans, t-shirt, baseball cap — he looked like he could've been _anyone_ visiting the hospital. 

Jim had been hiding behind it in cartoon fashion, with a Cheshire cat grin, delighted with himself and his sneaking abilities. _Is there even a point in asking how he got past security, John, the doctors, my brother, and god knows how much of my brother's security?_ Sherlock mused, but the morphine drip had made most of his deductive powers flaccid. 

"Mmm-mmm, who's _she_?" Jim turned to look out the window, flirtatiously giving the scorned woman a once-over, "Not bad, my pet, very… _fierce._ I'd be lying if said I wasn't a bit jealous." He swiped up the tabloids she had left, proclaiming his detective a "sex beast." The criminal chuckled, "Though apparently you let your freak flag fly with her. Didn't want to do that for me? Too shy? Or maybe you _wanted_ me to see this?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up, "All part of the plan." How he missed hearing Jim rattle on. Whenever most people talked, Sherlock tuned out, or filtered the less important information. But Jim never wasted air — everything he said was unequivocally important. Everything was a puzzle, or put Sherlock's brain to use.

If there was a little less morphine in his system, Sherlock might've even been up for real banter. _How long has it been since I've seen him now? Months, at least…_ He tried to run through a chronological line of his life, but it was all jumbled under the influence of the friendly painkiller. 

The shorter man sighed and proceeded to give Sherlock a more in-depth scan, "Did your 'plan' also include catching a bullet with your abdomen? Cause if so, you executed _that_ part pretty well." And there was the pain again — he tried so hard to hide it, but Jim's eyes betrayed him. Sherlock was about to make a sarcastic quip when a hand was held out to indicate "stop." 

Moriarty's face faded fast into a sullen mask as he knelt beside the hospital bed. For a moment, they just stared at each other. His eyes flickered to Sherlock's heart monitor, assuring himself the brunette was still alive and stable. _He looks so fragile…_ They both thought. 

"Sherlock," James' voice was a cutting whisper, "Your heart stopped. I watched as they gave up on you. I couldn't…" His voice tapered off, repressing a sob, _Pull yourself together_ , he thought, unable to think of the possibility of Sherlock not making it…

"You are absolutely _not allowed_ to die until I say so. I thought that was understood?" All joking was gone, but Sherlock still had to fight the urge to laugh, as to not disturb his stitches. When he regained his composure, he spoke plainly, "And I thought it was understood that I wouldn't see you until I met certain… requirements."

"I figured you got a freebie for getting yourself shot." He shrugged; the fear and sadness had hidden themselves, crawling back into the recesses of Jim's mind, but Sherlock couldn't un-see it. It just made the urge to touch him even greater. _Just for a second…_  

"Then it wasn't all bad." The detective snatched Moriarty's hand, squeezing it as best he could with the morphine dulling his senses. There it was. The electricity. The sparks. The glimmer of hope and passion that neither had felt since parting. 

With the assault on his senses, bathing in his thirst for Sherlock, James couldn't stay mad. _For a moment… this moment… I'll forget he still owes me something._ Sighing, the criminal kissed Sherlock's hand, "Don't do it again." 

Sherlock drew him in as close as he dared — there was still some pain, but the ecstasy of Jim being in his arms again was well worth it.

"It was you." Sherlock mumbled, lips buried in James' hair, "When I was slipping away… I thought of you. You pulled me out of it."

Jim smiled, face resting against the detective's chest. _Far too sweet,_ he thought, unable to respond, he nestled closer. 

The pair lay in silence for a few minutes, feeling the pressure of their bodies. "Can't stay," Moriarty murmured, "Security cameras can only glitch for so long." Sherlock felt a stabbing pain, but not around the wound. 

"I…" he began, but his voice failed him. _No, I can't say it now,_ he thought, _It's not that I don't… but I'm not in my right mind. It wouldn't have meant anything when I was laying in that hovel, strung out on the drugs I took while I was undercover, and it certainly wouldn't mean anything now… it just wouldn't be right. When I tell James how I feel about him…_

"I want it to be when we're both sober." Sherlock finally got out. Confusion appeared on Moriarty's face as their eyes met — he had been too busy worrying about his dearest to be reading his mind. 

"When I tell you… you know…" Sherlock clarified, "I don't want it to be out of urgency or desperation, or while I'm strung out on opiates…" he glanced at his IV, turned up to the maximum dispensing rate, "It's going to be because I don't _need_ to, but because I _want_ to. Because it's true."

This seemed to pacify James, smiling enough to crease the sides of his eyes, "Thank you." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, just where Janine had, "Never forget that you're mine." 

"You too." Sherlock replied, sinking into the hospital bed. Moriarty made a jokingly disgusted face, but gave Sherlock a swift kiss, "Till next time."

Sherlock fell asleep, carrying that idea into his dream. It had almost been a year since he last laid eyes on that clever grin; Sherlock had almost forgotten what it was like to feel his skin hum the way only Moriarty could make it. Yes, he had missed Jim dearly. 

When he woke, it was dark, and he was completely alone.


	9. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after Sherlock gets arrested for Magnussen's murder...

_Oh Sherlock, what have you done?_ Moriarty winced, looking at the front page headline that had been forwarded to him. _I could've arranged Magnussen's death in a million different fashions, none of which would've put you in harm's way._  

But Sherlock never would've accepted his help. At least, not on a normal day… but this. He had _murdered_ man for no clearly justified reason. _No, "murdered" is too soft of a phrase…_ _he shot a man_ _nearly point blank in the face_. _If it was heinous enough that the Iceman couldn't break him out of it, Sherlock might be more amenable to the_ fun _side of life_. He pouted,  _Why did it have to be too late?_

Dare he text him? Would he even have his phone on him right now? Defying all logic, Jim hit, "Call." It was a long shot — Sherlock hated talking on the phone, and would probably ignore it. But he had to try. He was rewarded with feedback of the call being accepted, rather than the generic voicemail. Clearly, whoever answered was breathing a bit erratically, as if they had been in distress. 

"What do you want?" It was Sherlock, albeit his voice was rough around the edges. 

"Have you been crying, my pet?" Moriarty cooed. The imprisoned sleuth would've hung up at this quip if he hadn't detected trace bits of sorrow in the criminal's voice. 

"I asked you what you wanted." 

"I… I wanted to talk to you." Moriarty stuttered, taken aback by the brusque attitude. 

"Well here I am. Did you want to congratulate me?"

"Pfft. Why would I do _that_? For killing a man? In _front_ of a handful of government soldiers and a high official? How careless. I mean, I understand the thrill of getting caught, but you need to get _nearly_ caught. Edging is the best, don't you know, _doofus_?"

At this, Sherlock had to chuckle.

"That's better," Jim smirked, "I don't like it when you're upset." 

"Thanks…" Sherlock said, but couldn't think of anything to say. Neither could Jim, despite any sort of happiness he showed on the surface. A layer of guilt pooled under the surface — if he hadn't been so stubborn, he might've been able to plot with Sherlock a covert way.

They could've joined forces. They could've been together. And now… Sherlock sniffed, blinking back tears, "Well… once again, I'm a dead man walking. But this time, it's not your doing. Are you… livid?" 

"I suppose… your life was _mine_ , Sherlock. You _took_ that privilege from me and put it in your wretched brother's hands." 

"He gave me the best he could. This was my fault."

The weight of his words resonated in both of them. 

"Well… I best be going. There's only so long I have before I'm going to be stuffed in a plane. I imagine they'll be confiscating my phone."

"I know."

At this point, the conversation had been more uncomfortable pauses than actual talking. Fear and sorrow overpowered them. 

"Jim… I'm sorry."

"For what, sweetie?"

"Everything."

"I forgive you."

"I just… I know I said it wouldn't be out of urgency… but seeing as it may be the last time I speak with you… I need you know… _I love you_."

The dial tone signified the call went dead. Sherlock had spat out the last line quickly, his hands shaking violently as he fumbled with the "End Call" button. 

"I love you, too, Sherlock." Moriarty whispered, putting the phone down. Exhaling, he turned a weary sigh into maniacal laughter. 

"Well!" He clapped, a fluttering self-assurance returning to his voice, "I guess it's time to cause some trouble!" 

He began texting his London branch of mischief makers. _Sherlock will be so pleased that no one has to die!_

 _It may have taken more than a year, but_ Jim Moriarty _always gets what he wants!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorty, but Sherlock finally sucked it up! Go Sherlock!


	10. Meanwhile...

"Who needs me this time?" Sherlock asked, blinking tears back, _I'm safe for a little while longer._ It had only been four minutes into his demise, but it might as well have been an eternity. _Facing one's mortality is rather taxing…_

"England." Mycroft said, more annoyed than anything else, staring at a looping .gif of James Moriarty's face:

 

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

 

While he would never tell Sherlock, Mycroft had long suspected that the criminal mastermind still walked the Earth. Moreover, he had deduced some time ago that he and Sherlock had some sort of connection, and that they had spent quite a bit of time together during Sherlock's two year campaign. 

Based on some evidence he had found at the safe houses, it was most likely romantic. 

He wasn't sure what he'd do with this information — until now, he had considered it his little brother's business. 

However, with the consulting criminal's public reappearance, for what seemed to be Sherlock's sake, it was now the concern of England. But conflicting thoughts made Mycroft decide to stay quiet; as long as Moriarty evaded capture, his baby brother could live comfortably. 

_Maybe they'll keep each other out of the lime light._ The eldest Holmes sighed, thinking about dropping Sherlock a hint, but instead chose to hang up. _We will talk later._

For now, he'd express his gratitude with silence. 

After the debriefing from the hitherto very quick mission, Mycroft and Sherlock got in the back of his fancy black spy car for a long ride back to Baker Street. 

The elder brother handed the disgruntled detective a plastic bag, "Your effects." He said in the most false-charming voice he could muster. Not much in it struck Sherlock's interest, but he desperately needed to contact a certain dead man. 

The moment the phone was safely in his hands, Sherlock covertly let his anger go in a text. 

 

_Are you *crazy?!* Oh, wait, sorry, forgot who I was talking to. -SH_

 

_"Thank you, Jim, for saving my life!"_

_Oh, Sherlock! It was my pleasure! -JM_

 

_What about your protection? -SH_

 

_I don't need to be dead to evade the law, my dear. It was just nice while it lasted. -JM_

 

_You didn't need to do that. -SH_

 

_No. But something far more valuable was at stake. -JM_

 

_Thank you. -SH_

 

James didn't reply. Sherlock threw his head back, a few minutes passing before Mycroft cleared his throat, "Now, Sherlock, we have some matters of grave importance to discuss." How would he bring it up? "But I should make it clear that I'm absolutely delighted that you're not going to die alone and tortured in Eastern Europe." 

The younger man wrinkled his nose, "Not _this_ again. There's only so much _brotherly love_ a man can take." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes — he could always count on Sherlock to put him in a combative mood, "Fine, let's talk about you and _your_ _boyfriend_." 

Sherlock tried very hard not to react at all to this statement; he had to be joking, or trying to psych him out. He decided to go with a bemused look, "What ever are you talking about, brother dear?" 

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock, it will only serve to make you look like a fool." A bit frazzled, Sherlock could only nod. 

"Now," Mycroft continued, seeing that it would be a one-way conversation, "I am not going to weigh in on the pros and cons of dating a _dangerous criminal,_ who has _tried to kill you_ in the past," he paused, pretending to search his mind, "Oh, and how he ruined the plans it took me years to set into motion, or—"

"Get on with it." Sherlock growled.

"Tsk, tsk. Don't interrupt." Mycroft clucked, but decided to move on anyway, "Right, so I won't pass judgement on that. Just promise me that you will keep it an expressly guarded secret. Because frankly, as of right now, it's all that's keeping you alive." 

Sherlock felt like he had just gone seven rounds against a wrecking ball — what did he say? He was certainly right — without Moriarty's involvement, he'd still be on his way to his real demise, and if anyone knew it was a set-up, he'd most definitely get sent right back. But _Mycroft,_ goody-goody government official, was keeping this secret? They'd have his skin for this, "How… human of you, brother mine." 

"Don't mistake me for a sentimental fool — I may be your brother, but I can still be reasonable. Let me assure you: if this gets out of hand, I'll make sure he's assassinated within the hour, and that you are firmly on your way back to exile." 

"Define, 'out of hand.'" Sherlock mused, taken aback by how much his brother had extrapolated from the situation. Had he really been so obvious? No, if it was that obvious, John, or more likely, Mary, would've caught on. It would only have to have been the smallest of slips — of course Mycroft knew. 

"I'll leave that to your discretion." The elder Holmes chided, peeking out the window, the press absolutely _packed_ outside the apartment, beginning to crowd around the car. He flashed a deadly grin, "Just a friendly warning." The car stopped at 221B, Sherlock clambering out as fast as he could, muscling his way through reporters and their inane questions. 

One, however, did register, "How do you feel about the reappearance of James Moriarty?" 

_Blessed._

 


	11. Epilogue: Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue! Thank you all for being such lovely readers! Enjoy, and leave a comment if you'd like to tell me what you liked, what you'd like to see in the next installation, or what I could improve, etc!

As Sherlock suspected, James was waiting for him. Standing in his living room, Moriarty had busied himself examining the decor. "You…" Sherlock began, but lost all ability to speak as they made eye contact  _... are far too beautiful._

The grin. That evil indicator, wordlessly conveying the genius criminal's outright control of the situation, "Me." 

He held his arms out, inviting Sherlock in. He accepted wholeheartedly, flying into the embrace, causing them both to stumble, hands tangling in each other's hair, shoving James against the mantlepiece. 

For a while, they stood there, feeling the warmth of the other, faces tucked into each other's shoulders. But to Sherlock, the scene was more frantic than tender: how was it that _he_ , the great detective, was playing damsel in distress? Wasn't he, on the side of the angels, supposed to be saving others? Specifically, wasn't he supposed to save James from the darkness that consumed him? _It was the darkness that saved me._

"I love you." He whispered, his nerves screaming in agony at the gravity of the words. "No, no, _no_! Not like that." Jim pouted, yanking Sherlock's head back, staring into his lovely cerulean eyes, " _Now_ say it." 

"I love you." Sherlock repeated, no less passionately than before. 

"There we go." Moriarty paused, enjoying the power in the moment, "I love you, too." 

"Does this mean…?" 

"What, my dear? That our little game is done?"

"No…"

"Good. A world without the game would be dreadfully dull."

While this was true, Sherlock couldn't help but be concerned, "I agree… but does that mean I constantly have to fear for my life?"

"It wouldn't be fun if you didn't." 

_He's got me there._ The detective thought, "That may complicate our relationship."

"Just never bore me, my pet, and you'll be safe." Moriarty continued, his lilting accent doing terrible things to Sherlock's brain. 

"As for my request…"

"Ahhh, I'd almost forgotten what this was all about."

"No you didn't."

"Okay, no I didn't… but you must admit, this all could've been avoided."

"I apologize for being stubborn."

"I already said I forgave you."

"I know. But does that mean you'll never leave me again?"

"Never." James leaned forward, bringing their lips together for a very sweet kiss. He broke away quickly, leaving Sherlock flustered and aching for more, "Anxious, are we?" Moriarty teased.

"It _has_ been almost a year since I've had you to myself…" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There IS a following story, but since series 4 is a ways away, and we have no idea what will be in it... I can't really call it a legitimate sequel (my aim here was to tie it all into cannon). I'll probably re-write it, or completely change it, in about 1-3 years (hopefully it won't take that long) 
> 
> BUT it is how I'd like to see things pan out. I'm excited for it, I hope y'all are too :)


End file.
